


How to Sell a Contradiction

by vanceypants



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, M/M, alternate universe - tab cola, can be read as platonic but if it's continued it'll be unambiguously romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22231867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanceypants/pseuds/vanceypants
Summary: When Jeremy decided to invest in cola-activated nanotechnology, he wasn't given the proper instructions on what to do when said technology begins killing flamboyant celebrities.  Or what to do when said killer technology begins expressing personal preferences in television programming.
Relationships: Jeremy Heere/Jeremy Heere's Squip
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	How to Sell a Contradiction

**Author's Note:**

> Just another tacky indulgent 80s AU.

There were many things about Jeremy’s life that had become thoroughly unbelievable as of late. Tab cola activated nanotechnology. Holographic upgrades for said Tab soda activated nanotechnology that projected from calculator watches. The fact that Brooke Lohst not only deemed him worthy to talk to, but had stated that his members only jacket was “très chic” (well, he was pretty sure that was what she was trying to say, anyway). 

But right now, the top of the list of unbelievable things in Jeremy’s life was-

“I can’t believe you killed Boy George.”

Jeremy pressed the right sequence of buttons on his watch to project the Squip’s physical form. It was still bizarre to him, how this piece of technology converted what had been merely a voice in his head offering insults and advice, into something close to imperceptibly humanoid. He watched as the pixels and lights flickered into effect, before the lanky form of the man (well, the computer robot thingy) who’d taken drastic control of Jeremy’s every waking moment poured into existence.

As was usual, Squip seemed to take a moment to reorient himself with existing in the corporeal world. His hands smoothed over the thin material of his tie, then combed through his dark hair, before his eyes fixed with their usual sense of vague annoyance onto Jeremy.

“It’s about time you got home. We’re almost late for _Max Headroom_.”

“Play practice ran late--that’s not important. You. You killed B-Boy George. What the...what the hell is that about?”

“Your stutter has improved vastly. That’s good. You still need to work on those vocal exercises I gave you.”

“F-fuck the, uh, the e-exercises, you y-yuppie prick!” Normal conversation with Squip involved mental gymnastics, telepathic vibrations back and forth with the foreign voice in his head. In a sense, it was easier like this, when he actually appeared as a physical form. 

In another sense, it was even more infuriating. Jeremy’s voice always seemed to crack and stammer in all the wrong ways in these moments.

Squip appeared to bite the inside of his cheek for a moment, expression pinched and irritated, before he pulled his aviators out of the back pocket of his stupidly tight pants. He used them (the sunglasses, not the pants) to point at Jeremy. “That’s hurtful, Jeremy, and inaccurate. I’m not a yuppie.” With a fluid motion he placed them onto his face, arms crossing over his chest. “And that’s only proving my point. The only place Christine is going to want you stuttering is in the back of her father’s car, between her legs.”

“I...what?”

“Don’t play coy, Mr. _Penthouse_ under the squeaky floorboards of the closet. Which, by the way, I thought I told you to get rid of.”

“And I thought you agreed no snooping.”

“I’m in your head. How would you expect me not to know--you’re getting sidetracked. Our show.”

No, it was Squip who was doing the sidetracking. And Jeremy wasn’t about to buy into this attempt. Not this time. If this dynamic was going to last, he needed to show some assertion. Some backbone. Some chutzpah, as his father was always so fond of expounding. “You killed Boy George.”

“This again. Why aren’t you over that?” Squip pushed his sunglasses up to the top of his head, facing Jeremy once more. 

“Over it? I just found out 30 minutes ago.”

“It’s not like you liked him. And, for the record, I did not ‘kill’ him as you so eloquently put it.”

“You jazzercised him to death. You...j-jesus christ, the weird computer in my head jazzercised the lead singer of Culture Club to death, what the f-fuck has my life become?”

“You’re oversimplifying things. Death by leg warmer is a completely valid, normal, noble way for a human to expire. And, I’m sorry, was I not with you at the time of the supposed crime?” Squip raised an eyebrow. “I don’t even have a solid body,” He moved closer, pushing a hand into Jeremy’s shoulder. As expected, it phased directly through him, an unpleasant image on the best of days. Jeremy smacked at him, watching the way his form glitched and swayed with the movement of his hands, before Squip stepped away. “I couldn’t have possibly killed anyone. You give me too much credit, flattering though it is.”

“Yeah, well, you knew s-something was going to-”

“I predicted a favorable outcome, yes. What’s the big deal? It’s not as though you cared for his music.”

“That’s so not the point. This is totally...uh, totally…” Jeremy considered what it totally was. His lips pressed into a thin line, as he prodded at (and through) Squip’s chest. “Not cool,” He finally decided upon, before swiveling around and stomping towards his room.

Squip sighed, and followed, though Jeremy was quick to slam the door in his smug holographic face once he reached his room.

Which did nothing to prevent Squip from simply walking directly through it. “Formless, Jeremy. Remember?”

“Shut up,” Jeremy sneered. “I hate your stupid face.” He flopped onto his bed--the very bed Squip had insisted he needed to make today (“it’s never too early to build up healthy homebuilding habits, Jeremy. It’s the modern world, you can’t expect women to clean up after you once you leave the nest.”)--and grabbed a pillow, throwing it over his own face. Blissful darkness and quiet.

Interrupted by not-so-blissful nagging. “ _Max_ is on in 5 minutes-”

“I don’t want to w-watch stupid freaking _Max Headroom_ , Squip, give it a rest.”

“It’s a culturally significant program. You will have things to discuss with your new peer branches.” 

“You killed Boy George, and I’m supposed to be thinking about TV debates with my peers. Y-Yeah, okay.”

“I didn’t kill anyone. People die, Jeremy. People die, technology goes obsolete, life is scary and unpredictable and complicated and I have an algorithm to take advantage of the otherwise tragic disasters that are life. Stop rubbing your greasy face on your pillowcase and come out to the living room so we can watch TV.”

“My face isn’t greasy anymore. ‘Healthy skin care regimes are-’”

“I know what I said. Jeremy.” Squip’s voice sounded strained. Jeremy lowered the pillow from his face, watching as Squip sat on the edge of the bed. His hands moved over his tie once again, twisting the fabric over his fingertips, before letting it drop. “I can’t turn the TV on without you. I can’t...I can’t see anything, watch anything, without accessing data through your ocular nerves.”

Jeremy sat up. “What’s your point?” He finally asked, though his voice had lost its sharpness.

Squip stared down at his own hands, which had fallen into his lap. “I want to watch the stupid show,” He mumbled. “I want to watch the stupid show with you. I’m sorry a singer you don’t particularly care about died in a not so particularly dignified way, and I’m sorry I used that travesty to orchestrate events that have a 97% chance of, at a bare minimum, scoring you an above average handjob from Brooke behind the bleachers Monday between 3rd and 4th period.”

“That’s a terrible apolo--uh, a handjob?”

No. That wasn’t important. 

Well, actually, it was very important, but Squip was being something close to vulnerable. Jeremy considered it, how little he’d thought about how Squip’s entire existence, entire line of life experiences, relied upon Jeremy’s input. 

“Couldn’t your, uh, your predictive pattern software thingies, uh, like, tell you how the show is going to end?”

Squip sighed. “I predict it’s going to be canceled midway through its second season. I could outline an exact trajectory of every plotpoint, character arc, and running gag if I truly felt the need to expand the energy to-” He stopped, and a short, almost sad laugh escaped him. “I want to experience it firsthand, okay? Yes, I could do all of those things. And yes, I have a certainty that I won’t get closure due to inevitable cancelation. But I want to watch it. I want to watch it with you. I suppose I should be occupying my time plotting better ways to get Christine to notice you, though.”

“No,” Jeremy stood up. “No, I...okay. I get it.” He smiled, reaching out his hand for Squip’s, as though to help him up. “But I’m not doing those stupid ab workouts while we watch this time.”

“Understandable.”

“And I’m eating pop rocks.”

Squip’s nose wrinkled. “But you’re so noisy when you…” He trailed off, sighing. “Fine.” His hand extended, and for just a moment, there was an illusion of contact, as though he really could just latch on and use Jeremy’s leverage to pull himself up.

But of course his hand went straight through him.

Jeremy felt a strange clenching in his chest, followed by the uncomfortable revelation that he was sorely disappointed to not be able to feel Squip’s touch directly. “You swear you didn’t kill him?”

“Give me time, Jeremy.” 

“I...time for what?”

Squip stood up. He grabbed his sunglasses again, dropping them back onto his face. “Time to realize my crime.”

“Oh. Um. O-okay?” Jeremy failed to comprehend what he was getting at, following Squip out of his bedroom, and towards the couch in the living room.

It wasn’t until they were seated, and he was flipping through the channels, settling in before he could tear into his packet of candy, that Jeremy groaned, head flopping backwards as he stared up at the ceiling. “Y-you can’t reference his music after murdering him, Squip, oh my god!”

“It was a pretty clever comment.” Squip waited for Jeremy to lift his head, before he casually draped his arms over the back of the couch, his eyes fixed onto the TV. “What can I say, though? I’m a man without conviction.”

Jeremy lifted his wrist, pointing at the watch. “One more quip, m-mister, and I’m sh-shutting you off.”

“I can still see the TV from inside your head.”

Jeremy’s fingers hovered over the keys. “I’m w-warning you.”

Squip raised his hands, shrugging. “Okay, okay. I swear, Jeremy, I can’t keep up with you sometimes. Always something with you. You come and go. You come and go.”

“Was that another--Squip, I’m serious-”

“Oh, eat your candy, you tight ass,” Squip laced his fingers behind the back of his head, leaning back as he gave the illusion of propping his feet up on the coffee table. His head nodded towards the TV. “The show’s on.”

“Th-thin ice, bub,” Jeremy grumbled, but used his teeth to tear open the wrapper of his pop rocks. He blew the torn piece of wrapping off into Squip’s general direction, letting it fall through his holographic form in that way that made his body glitch for a few seconds before resettling into stability. Squip’s lower lip jutted out into a slight pout, though the dark lenses of his glasses (now facing Jeremy) prevented Jeremy from actually seeing the intensity of his glare. Jeremy smiled with feigned innocence, pointing at the TV. “Show’s on. Y-you gonna pay attention or not?”

Squip made a soft sound of irritation, but turned towards the TV. Jeremy smiled, his eyes briefly moving over Squip’s artificially handsome profile. He was probably more trouble than he was worth, but Michael’s continued arguments to get rid of him were growing harder and harder to take seriously.

“Are you even paying attention?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy poured the crackling candy into his mouth, letting it tingle on his tongue until it burned away any urges to reflect upon the dynamic with his mental roommate. His eyes moved over the images on the TV, even as his mind reeled with the realization of AI having television preferences, the fact that he might be getting a handy sometime in the future, and the faint earworm whistlings of the chorus of _Karma Chameleon_.


End file.
